Okay so here’s the deal… I hate the gym. And the gym hates me back. I have hardcore gym ADD and get bored after about 3 minutes of doing ANYTHING, so it’s very difficult to get a good workout. It also pisses me off that there are FAT MIRRORS lining every freakin’ wall in that place. Those mirrors do not make me want to stay there. They make me want to leave. And never come back.
Alas, the gym is apparently an important part of life if:
1. You want to be healthy
2. You want to be hot
3. You want men to like you
I have put this place off for happy hours, my couch, and reality TV marathons for entirely too long. I renewed my membership and started dragging my (extra-large) ass back in there about a week ago. Another thing I don’t like about gyms are the men. Men stare. Men grunt. Men try to make conversation with sweaty women. They pretty much all just turn into full-on animals when they’re in there. So I don’t make eye contact. With anyone.
I rush into the dreaded gym today after work, to change quickly and catch a Pilates class. I recently got over my fear of classes after I survived an hour-long full body plus abs workout on Tuesday. The first five minutes of class I tried my hardest not to laugh as we were doing an 80′s-inspired warmup, and the next 55 minutes I spent trying not to cry. Sometime in the middle I wanted to punch the instructor in the face for not actually doing the stepping part, feeling she didn’t realize that it was physically impossible to take one more step onto that damn step. Anyyywayy….. as I’m rushing in to change (not making eye contact with anyone), I hear, “Hello! Hi…. How are you??!? Hi!” until I finally turn around and see a large man coming at me. He obviously worked there, so I gave a friendly enough reply and then kept moving. He started making small talk as we both walked towards the locker rooms, and then he told me he had a personal training cancellation (how convenient) and he was wondering if I’d like a free trial session.
“No thank you, I’m going to catch the Pilates class that’s starting in a few minutes.”
“HA! Pilates… I’ll have you burning WAY more calories than that Pilates class. Come on… why not?”
Ughhhhh…. I’m a sucker. For pretty much anything. If you gimme a good pitch, chances are, I’m probably going to give in. So I warned him I am insanely out of shape, and also that I do NOT plan on buying his overpriced training package when we are finished (although not convincing myself that I won’t, because… well…. I’m a sucker. For anything).
So I change and meet the huge man back outside the locker room, and OF COURSE we can’t just go do a workout because he has to give me the full-on assessment first. It starts with a basic questionnaire… height, weight, age, whatnot.
“You don’t look anywhere near 30.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Now get on the scale.”
GET ON THE SCALE??! What’s the point in this form ASKING for my weight if you are going to make me stand on a scale anyway? In public. You don’t believe me? Hmmm…
“I don’t want to get on a scale. There’s a time and a place for a scale, and that is NOT at the end of the day, with all of my clothes on.”
I got on the scale. He subtracted the 4 pounds difference between what I KNOW I weigh (in the morning, naked), and how much his wretched old scale told him I weigh (in the evening FULLY CLOTHED with HEAVY SHOES). Jerk.
Next he starts asking me a million questions from a form about why I want to get in shape, when the last time was that I was in shape, and who my motivators are. Of course….
“So besides yourself, who else is motivating you to get in shape?”
“How about….. a husband?”
“You don’t have a husband?”
“How about a boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?”
WTF. I said I’m motivating myself, get off it. After the questions are finally finished, he takes a device and tells me to hold it.
“Do you really have to measure my fat right now? I’m fat. Okay? Now let’s just go do the workout. This is taking too long.”
“Just hold it.”
He looks at the device with disgust and writes a number down on a blank piece of white paper.
“THIS is your body fat percentage.” Then he draws a lonnnnggggg line with an arrow pointing down, and writes another number, much lower. ”And THIS is what your body fat percentage SHOULD be.”
I know! That’s why I’m here!!!!! Come onnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!
He makes me this whole pretty picture with graphs and equations and crap I really don’t care about, telling me all of the muscle groups I need to work to get to my goal body composition. I.don’t.care.right.now.
Finally it was time for the workout. We both stood up from our chairs, and Big Man takes the piece of paper he was drawing on, turns his back to me and shows it to another trainer standing next to him, whispering something. They both turn and look at me. He puts the paper down and walks over to direct me to the training room.
“Ummm… why did you just show that guy my paper?”
“Oh, he just didn’t believe how old you were, so I was showing him.”
I’m thinking in my head that it wasn’t that paper I wrote my age on. ”You were showing him how fat I am, weren’t you???”
“No! I was showing him your age!!!”
Yeah…. okay. I brush it off and continue walking. We went through a grueling workout, all the while, Big Man saying “COME ON” in a demanding tone in which I did not appreciate. I gave him a few dirty looks. He made sure I knew that his little brother is a key player on the Baltimore Ravens and hosting a charity event in the city tonight. Okay… irrelevant while I’m doing squats on top of an unstable surface with a really heavy ball in my arms. He kicked my butt for a bit, and then we returned to the personal training section for the predictable sales pitch to get me to buy an overpriced training package. As I stood by the desk, waiting for Big Man to come over, I saw my white sheet of paper sitting on a table behind it. I asked another trainer to hand it to me.
Just as I thought. My age was NOT written on that piece of paper. I don’t let things go easily. Big man comes back over towards me and I hold the paper in front of his face.
“What were you showing the other guy?? My age is NOT on here!”
“He works for me. I was just showing him how everything is done with the evaluation.”
Now I see him looking at someone over my shoulder, and then said something to him I didn’t understand. I turn around to look at who he is talking to and another trainer is STARING at my ass. STARING. Like as in, I stared right back at him for a good 5 seconds before he even realized I had turned my head around and made eye contact with me.
Big man says, “Oh don’t worry, I wasn’t talking to you.”
Yeah, I know YOU WEREN’T TALKING TO ME but this man is staring at my rear-end!
WTF is going on here.
“Tell me what you were talking about on my piece of paper. WHAT WERE YOU SHOWING HIM? I can tell you’re lying. You’re not looking at me and now you’re laughing.”
“I’m laughing because YOU’RE LAUGHING.”
Finally….. he tells me….
“I was showing him your body fat percentage. I was proving a point.”
“And what point is that?”
“You’re something we call ‘skinny fat.’ We had a meeting about it this morning, and I wanted to show him a real life example.”
“THAT IS SO RUDE!!!!!”
“It just means that a lot of people LOOK thinner than they actually are. He didn’t believe me. So I was showing him your numbers.”
As much of a sucker as I am for sales pitches, this man was not winning me over at this point. He also didn’t do himself any favors when he incorporated the amount of money he predicted I spend per month on happy hour. Well I’m not going to stop going to happy hour in order to pay for a personal trainer… that’s just absolute crazy-talk. So try again.
I sat with Big Man for at least 45 minutes, using my negotiating skills to basically make them train me for free… but the computer system was not allowing him to input the low figures I was suggesting. We BS’ed about life and football, I learned that the Big Man also played in the NFL before he dislocated his shoulder. He taught me some plays, and we had a few good chuckles. But when push came to shove I decided not to shell out the money for the training package. I couldn’t commit to a year-long term. A year is a long time. A lot can happen in a year. A TON can happen in a year. And I’m not in a commitment kind of a mood right now.